


get to know me (i'll get to know you)

by honeyflow



Series: help me understand [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Body image mentions, Clothed sex technically, Direct mentions of trans male genitalia, Dysphoria in general actually, M/M, Not really sure if the beginning is fluff or angst? It really just exists as story framing, Prompto is a soft man and a good boyfriend, Quite Literally, Self-Exploration, Trans Male Character, Very brief deadnaming, light smut towards the end, mentions of dysphoria, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyflow/pseuds/honeyflow
Summary: "Whatcha doin'?""Reacclimating."





	get to know me (i'll get to know you)

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't figure out how to word it in the tags, but there's a mention of Isaac's genitalia in anatomical terms, so if the words "clit" or "vulva" bug you, you can skedaddle after they start getting frisky.

He stands, naked, admiring his form in front of his floor-length mirror. There he is, a body misaligned from the shaved, pushed-over hair and loosely-knotted ties fitting comfortably around his throat. His breasts rise and fall with each breath; he palms them, lets tender fingertips rove down his skin and over their swell, to the ample underside. He wonders why his body bothers when they both know they won’t serve a purpose.

A clipped exhale passes through his nose and he releases himself, not even wincing when they drop heavily into a resting position. They’re just a part of his body now, round and existing and irritating as all hell. Sometimes he wants to cut them off, but then he’d be thrust into a whole new reality, a whole new body different from the one he’s inhabiting, and as much as he hates his anatomy, Isaac isn’t sure if he could handle the shock of such a sudden change.  
He’s not even on hormones, so he’d only be knocking numbers off his bra size. 

A memory of two days ago appears behind his eyelids when he blinks. It’s the moment he’d mashed his finger in the kitchen drawer when looking for the potato masher, and the unpleasant burst of pain afflicting his fingertip. He’d eventually found the darn thing – it was hidden behind the big spoon they bring to potlucks – and spent a good ten minutes suckling his wound while he beat the spuds into submission with his non-dominant hand.  
He remembers dinner that night as part mash, part potato chunks, but from the satisfied look on the faces of his friends, he’d done a good job.

Isaac had always been a wimp with pain.

That’s why surgery is just plain out of the question – he’s a total marshmallow. He’d always looked away at the doctor’s offices during vaccinations, always teared up when he stubbed his toes. And the post-op recovery? Forget it. There’s no way in hell he could spend six weeks in bandages, not when he’s spend his whole life bruising like a Tenebrae peach. He’s just a regular boy void of an advanced healing factor like Noctis, of a bricklike sturdiness like Gladio.

It’s the Naomi in him, his brain says as his eyes wander to his mons. Fingertips approach carefully from the dip of his hips, inching toward the area like it’s his first time seeing it. His skin is warm where the sunlight leaks in from his partially-drawn blinds. It’s good therapy, the internet said once, something about self-image and exploration and de-escalating your fears. 

He’s pretty sure it was written for newly-dumped girls and lanky guys in locker rooms, but he’s been able to shower with the lights on for almost four days now, so it’s useful advice, target demographic be damned.

Skin brushes against the curvature between his legs and he shudders at the lightness, at the delicateness with which he touches himself. Something dark feathers the corners of his vision and he presses down harder, like he’s reclaiming it.

He misses his boxers now but his fingers tighten their grip. The carpet has since worn down into the shape of his feet.

Prompto enters the room whistling a jaunty tune, spinning his keys on an extended finger before clasping them in his hand.

“Hey,” Isaac greets lightly, nodding shortly at him through the mirror. 

“Sup,” Prompto responds in kind. There’s a shuffle and a thump as he sheds his bulky Crownsguard leathers, draping them over the back of his desk chair. He clears his throat not at all awkwardly. “Whatcha doin’?”

Isaac’s got one hand on his vulva and the other at his breast, the picture of disinterest in the way he holds himself. He’s man enough to admit it’s a weird thing to walk on, though he laughs at the candied shade flushing Prompto’s cheeks.

Isaac grins openly, face brightening as it clicks that Prompto’s trying not to look. “Just reacclimating,” he offers him easily. He bites his lip, intending to leave it there, and then adds, “Want to help?”

Prompto looks worried. Or maybe uncomfortable? No, nervous is the word. Maybe even a twinge flustered as he swings his arms back and forth, his hands meeting with soft, rhythmic claps. He’s got his gaze averted to the top of the dresser and it endears him to Isaac even further. 

They’ve literally had sex before yet Prompto is acting like this is new territory. It makes his heart clench anew.

“You can look at me, you know.” He titters. “I want you to.” he worries his lip one last time, hands behind him and coy. “Wanna have sex, Prompto?”

Periwinkle eyes finally look at him, unmoving where they lock gazes in the reflection of the mirror. “Can I touch you?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a handprint of heat where his palm had just been, and somehow he feels Prompto wants to reshape it after his own.

“All over?” he queries, brow cocked in a delightful show of playfulness. He crosses the room with a swagger, meeting the nude male where he stands. The leather of his gloves provides Isaac with a pleasant scratch as caresses his upper arms. A breath of amusement falls from Isaac’s mouth at their notable height difference.  
There’s a mouth at his neck, gently and nipping while a hand leaves his bicep to snake down his waist, around his hip, into to the upper of his thigh. There’s a chill to the expanse with every brush of skin and of leather, goose bumps sprouting in his wake in spite of the sunlight they stand in.  
Warmth floods his cheeks, staining them a peachy pink as the shorter male takes the taller man’s hand and introduces his fingers to his slit, head falling back on his shoulder with a hum. 

“Mind if I have a taste?” Prompto asks against the shell of his ear. Fingertips circle gently around Isaac’s clit, and he loudly keens his approval.

Contact is lost for barely a moment, gloves are stripped and positions are changed, Isaac now with his back against the cool glass of the mirror with his leg over Prompto’s shoulder. There’s a kiss to the inner of his thigh before Prompto’s tongue makes beautiful work of his core.

 

That misaligned feeling dies out as his orgasm builds.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
